Christie Golden: War Crimes

Varian had few friends among the Horde. Many distrusted his apparent personality change, and even his refusal to occupy Orgrimmar had won him only grudging acknowledgment. Humans were the enemy, would always be the enemy, and Sylvanas could see that the Horde’s displeasure with the trial in the first place would only become the sourer if they had to watch Varian speak as Accuser. It seemed as though Vol’jin saw this, too.

“Yes, Lord Taran Zhu. We gonna exercise our right to veto,” he said.

Oddly, the Alliance didn’t try to argue them out of it. Sylvanas was on alert at this reaction, and her mind seized upon the truth of the calculated trick even as the name of the Accuser was announced.

“Then our selection as Accuser will be High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind,” Varian said smoothly.

Tyrande Whisperwind. Of all the races, even humans, the night elves hated the orcs the most. Rightly so, given their love of nature and the orcs’ desire for building and war materiel. Sylvanas was initially outraged, then found herself wondering for a moment if this really was as bad a choice as it seemed. Most of the Horde would have preferred to accuse Garrosh rather than defend him, as Baine’s reluctance had demonstrated.

But as Tyrande’s glowing eyes swept over the Horde, Sylvanas saw no empathy for their plight. Tyrande was a priestess, but she had also fought her share of battles.

Taran Zhu continued to speak, describing how Pandaren law dictated the trial’s points of order and in what manner they would unfold, but the Banshee Queen turned a deaf ear to him.

“Well played, Alliance,” she murmured in her once-native language.

“They only fronted Varian, knowing we would veto him, so they could get someone even more determined in his place, in case any of us had lingering affection in our hearts for Garrosh,” came an answering voice in the same tongue. “I do not think they quite understand that we hate him as much as they do.”

Sylvanas looked over at Lor’themar, lifting an eyebrow. The sin’dorei leader had always been polite but coldly resentful whenever Sylvanas had approached him to forge unity, keeping his precious dignity even when coerced. Did this conversation in Thalassian signal a shift? Was he perhaps smarting from being overlooked for leadership of the Horde?

“She has no love for Garrosh,” Sylvanas continued.

“She has no love for the Horde, either,” countered Lor’themar. “I wonder if Vol’jin will regret not taking Varian when we had the chance. I suppose we must wait, and watch.”

“As we ever do,” said Sylvanas, curious as to how he would respond to the implied partnership. He did not seem to hear it, instead bowing to someone on the Alliance side as the various representatives filed out. Sylvanas turned to see who it was.

Of course—Vereesa and Lor’themar had encountered one another recently. Her sister’s courtesy toward the blood elf leader surprised Sylvanas. She was even more surprised when, after acknowledging Lor’themar, Vereesa deliberately met Sylvanas’s eyes for a long moment before turning away.

It was the first time the Windrunner sisters—two of them, anyway—had seen one another in years. It would naturally be somewhat emotional to Vereesa to see Sylvanas again. But there was neither bitterness nor sorrow in Vereesa’s face.

There was only grim resolve and a peculiar sort of . . . satisfaction?

And Sylvanas had no idea why.

Baine’s chest loosened as he set hoof once again on good Mulgore soil—he had felt constricted the entire time he was in Pandaria. He took a deep breath of the clean, fragrant night air and sighed it out.

The shaman Kador Cloudsong was waiting for him. “It is good to have you home,” Cloudsong rumbled, bowing deeply.

“It is good to be home, even for so brief a time—and for so somber a task,” Baine answered.

“The dead are always with us,” Cloudsong intoned. “We may grieve that we do not have the joy of their physical presence, but their songs are in the wind, and their laughter in the water.”

“Would that they could speak to us and give us advice, as they once did.” The thought made Baine’s chest ache again, and he debated the wisdom of deliberately reopening this old wound. But he trusted that Cloudsong would have dissuaded him had the shaman believed his request unwise.

“They do speak, Baine Bloodhoof, though not in ways that we are used to hearing.”

Baine nodded. His father, Cairne, indeed, was always with him. Baine and Cloudsong were together at Red Rocks, the ancient site where fallen heroes of the tauren were sent to the Earth Mother and Sky Father via cleansing flame. Set a slight distance away from Thunder Bluff, Red Rocks was aptly named, a naturally occurring formation of red sandstone. It was a peaceful and reflective site, where one could step out of the world of Thunder Bluff into a place that served as a transition between that world and the next. Baine had not been here since he had said farewell to Cairne. Now, as then, Cloudsong was beside him, although this time it was just the two of them. Looking due west, Baine could see Thunder Bluff in the distance, silhouetted against the star-crowded sky, its bonfires and torches little stars all on their own. A small fire burned in the direction of the east here on Red Rocks as well, adding warmth and a comforting glow.

Fire. He turned back and looked at the pyre platforms, empty now of bodies awaiting ritual burning. Only ashes would remain, and even these would be taken by the singing winds and scattered to the four directions. Even though they had a lasting home now in Thunder Bluff, the tauren chose not to bury their dead. Their death ritual bespoke their origins as nomads, and if their beloved ones were freed to the wind and fire, they could wander in death as in life if they chose.

“Did you have sufficient time for preparation?” he asked Cloudsong.

“I did.” The shaman nodded. “It is not an overly complex rite.” Baine was not surprised. The tauren were a simple people, and had no need of elaborate words or strange, difficult-to-obtain items in their ceremonies. What the good earth provided was almost always sufficient. “Are you ready, my high chieftain?”

Baine gave a pained chuckle. “No. But let us begin, even so.”

Clad in leather made from the hides of beasts he himself had slain, Cloudsong began to stamp his hooves in a slow, steady rhythm as he lifted his muzzle to the eastern sky.

“Hail to the spirits of air! Breeze and wind and storm, all these you are, and more. Tonight, we ask you to join this our rite, and whisper wisdom from the great Cairne Bloodhoof into the waiting ears of his son, Baine.”

It had been a still evening, but now Baine’s fur was ruffled by a gentle zephyr. He pricked his ears, but all he heard was a soft murmur, at least for the present. Cloudsong reached into his shaman’s pouch and withdrew a handful of gray dust. This he scattered on the ground as he walked, forming a curved line to link east and south. Normally the material so utilized would be corn pollen. But that was for ceremonies that involved life. This ritual was of the dead, and therefore the gray dust was composed of the ashes of those who had been sent to the spirits on this site.

“Hail to the spirits of fire!” Cloudsong faced a little blaze, lifting his staff to honor it. “Glowing ember and flame and inferno, all these you are and more. Tonight we ask you to join this, our rite, and warm Baine Bloodhoof with the strong courage of Cairne Bloodhoof, his beloved father.”

The flame shot up high for a moment, and Baine felt fierce heat from the wall of fire. Having made its presence known, the fire subsided to its more temperate state, crackling as it burned gently.